Page 3 of Punchline
It was a replay of the fight, except someone had put an animated banana peel under my skate, which went flying in the same instant I went down. It played again. And again. And again.
“Oh my God,” I groaned, and let my face fall into my gloves.
Olson slapped my back. “Aww, c’mon Berns. It’s entertaining the fans!”
I just groaned again.
“Berns, Olson, Frost,” Coach barked. “You’re up!”
I got up and leaned against the boards, ready to jump over it as soon as my on-ice teammates were close enough.
Right then, more laughter rippled through the crowd. I didn’t dare look up, but my face was on fire, which only made the bruise on my cheekbone throb evenharder. Christ, as if losing that fight hadn’t been embarrassing enough.
When Marek was within five feet of the bench, it was go time. I flew over the boards…
But I was still a tiny bit distracted, and my damn skate blade caught. I dropped my stick and almost went sprawling, but thank God, Frost had come over with me. He grabbed my arm to steady me.
He let me go and sprinted away while I picked up my stick. Of course, my momentary stumble had slowed our line changed and given our opponents the opportunity for a breakaway. They’d taken full advantage and were charging into our zone, three-on-one against Bowman, our rookie defenseman.
I scrambled after them, but I was too late.
Someone tapped the puck in behind Cantwell, and the horn sounded as the red light went on.
My shoulders dropped beneath my bads. Fucking hell. We’d been on our way to a shutout, and then I’d stumbled, and now…
Goddammit.
At least the period ended shortly after that. I needed to be away from that stupid Jumbotron and the crowd andVincent.
I didn’t make it to the locker room before I was waylaid.
Marek pulled me aside in the hallway, and he peered at me under the harsh fluorescent lights. “Hey. You’re up in your own head. What’s going on?”
I dropped my gaze to the concrete beneath our skates. “I fucked up, and now we’re down a goal.”
“Berns. We’re still up 5-1.”
“I know. I… ” I exhaled and met his gaze. “Cantwell could’ve had a shutout if I hadn’t stumbled on the way out.”
Marek shook his head. “Nah. Syracuse never scores much early in a game. They were bound to get something by the third.”
I searched his expression, wondering if he was being patronizing.
He put his hand on my shoulder and looked right in my eyes. “Look, I saw the replay and how it threw you off your game.”
I winced. “Did they have to make a video like that out of it?”
He shrugged. “They do that sometimes. And I know shit like that can fuck with your head. But you’vegotto let it go.”
“I need to let it go?” I flailed a hand toward the ice. “Tell that to the guys running the Jumbotron!”
He grimaced. “I know. That was shitty. But that’s why we’re not supposed to look at the Jumbotron or listen to the crowd. Trust me—you’ll stay a lot saner if you stop paying attention to anything except what’s on the ice.”
“Maybe. But I also… ” My stomach curdled with shame, dread, and embarrassment.
“What?” he prodded.
“I… I mean, did youseethat fight?” I flailed my gloved hand toward the ice. “I sucked!”
